Reprints from Nature and Culture.
The redstart is one of the most beautiful of the warblers. It flutters
through the branches like the sunbeams through the dancing leaves;
again, it suggests a darting flame or a gorgeous autumn-leaf tossed
hither and thither by the wind.
The redstart winters in the tropics--Mexico, South America, and the
West Indies--but nests in almost every part of North America east of
the Rockies. The female models an exquisite statant, increment nest,
well set down in the crotch of a tree, but the kind of a tree selected
and the materials used vary in different localities.
The most beautiful nest I ever found was located sixteen feet from the
ground, in the crotch of a white birch. The support was formed by the
main trunk and several ascending, rudimentary branches. When I looked
up into the tree a tiny, fluffy mass of white birch curls attracted my
attention. On this cushion the nest was shaped of similar curls of
white birch bark and partially decomposed inner bark, fiber; the rim,
firm and well modeled, consisted of what looked like split culms of
hay, but I decided that it must be the outside of decayed goldenrod
stems. It was lined with horse hair, human hair, and the feathers of
the female. A daintier, warmer, safer, little cradle no bird could
desire.
Another nest, located in a maple five feet high from the ground, was
placed on a foundation of dead leaves, coarse meadow grass, and white
birch bark. The cup was constructed of fine cedar bark fiber; the
outside was ornamented with the white egg cases of some insect. The
nest had a beautifully turned brim of the same material as was used in
the former nest. The lining, likewise, was of goldenrod fiber, and a
few of the green and yellow feathers of the female. As usual, more or
less spider's floss entered into the composition of this well-made
structure. The dwelling strikingly corresponded in color with the gray
maple crotch that supported it. Each house was well adapted to its
surroundings.
The female builds the nest almost unassisted and appears, likewise to
incubate and brood the young. The male, however, sings from his varied
repertoire to cheer his mate at her task, and assists the female in
feeding the young and cleansing the domicile, but when disturbed by an
observer, the female is more assiduous than the male in her attentions
to their offspring.
[Illustration]
Usually when a person attempts to inspect a redstart's nest containing
young, the female drops from the nest a dead weight and falls from
branch to branch of any tree in the way, striking the ground with a
dull thud. Her next move is to trail a helpless wing along the ground.
At another time she flies from the nest and alights on the ground with
spread wings and tail. The yellow markings on the wing and tail show
conspicuously as the bird moves forward by the wings, as if her legs
were too weak to sustain her weight. At the same time the bird twitters
very softly, almost inaudibly; in other words, she feigns the
helplessness of a young bird. These pretty deceptions, the expression
of the mother instinct, always appeal to me very strongly.
While studying a family of redstarts that lived in a gray birch some
twelve feet above the ground, the hen and one nestling disappeared.
Across the hayfield from the grove of the birds that I was observing
was a bit of woodland to which both redstarts resorted frequently,
presumably for feed. Here was the nest of a redstart containing four
fresh eggs. That day I arranged with a care to lower the nest a number
of feet. The birds deserted. On examining the nest I found that one egg
has been cracked. Whether this nest belonged to the redstarts of the
grove and the female left her young in the care of the cock while she
constructed a third nest, I cannot say. Exactly what became of the
mother remained a mystery.
It was with grave concern that I watched the gayly dressed little
songster for an entire day to see if he would take upon himself the
duties of the mother-bird. Nothing could have been more touching than
to note the faithfulness with which he performed all the work of two
birds save brooding the young. The following morning the nest was
empty, but I found the father-bird in a coppice feeding the little
family. Evidently he had undertaken the entire care of his small flock.
One nest of redstarts that I studied from the egg stage was on the wing
on the tenth day. As the nest was but five feet from the ground, within
reach, and as I called there nearly every day, it is not surprising
that the old bird tolled the young from the nest as soon as they were
able to fly. At this age redstart nestlings preen vigorously and fly
short distances.
The nest of the redstarts, when vacated, was immaculate, save for the
quill and pin feather cases that filled the interstices.
[Illustration]
The bird seems to raise a second brood, at least some years, as nearly
all the dates at which I have discovered the bird nesting are later
than those I find recorded. Redstarts were completing a nest June 13,
1908; a male and female were feeding four young five or six days old
July 13, 1907; a bird was ready to incubate four fresh eggs the same
day, and still another redstart was incubating four eggs July 5, 1910;
these were not hatched until nine days later.
If the birds feed two broods during the summer, then they are nearly
twice as useful as they have been generally supposed to be. The
redstart is the most active of the active warblers, and the number of
gnats, flies, caterpillars, moths, other insects and their eggs that
these birds consume or feed to their nestlings in one day is
incredible. While it does splendid work in the woods it frequently
comes to the orchard and is not unknown to paly its quest for food in
the village streets. While we admire the redstart for its beauty and
its charming little songs, we respect the bird for his utility. In this
case the proverbial "fine feathers" do cover fine little bird.
THE OLD TREE.
I.
The old beech tree, so green and gray!
How oft I've heard thee, whispering say,
With beckoning branches waving low,
"Rest here, where cooling breezes blow!"
And in thy shadows deep and dark,
How oft I've touched thy cool gray bark;
And still I bless thee, old beech tree,
For old sweet memories dear to me.
Repeat the stories yet half told
Of those who carved their names so bold!
In whispers tell of them today,
O venerable beech, so green and gray!
II.
The old beech tree, so green and gray,
The old-time welcome gives today,
With beckoning branches reaching down
To mother earth all garbed in brown.
Thy gnarled, bark-covered roots up-bend
A further welcome to extend.
Thy low-extending branches wave,
As though a green-robed prelate gave
A benediction, and had blessed
A people weary and oppressed.
And so I rest with thee today,
My old beech tree, so green and gray!
--_Richard Nevin Pemberton._
[Illustration]
THE HORSE'S PRAYER TO HIS MASTER.
To Thee, My master, I offer my prayer: Feed me, water and care for me,
and when the day's work is done, provide me with shelter, a clean dry
bed, and a stall wide enough for me to lie down in comfort.
Always be kind to me. Talk to me. Your voice often means as much to me
as the reins. Pet me sometimes, that I may serve you the more gladly
and learn to love you. Do not jerk the reins, and do not whip me when
going up hill. Never strike, beat or kick me when I do not understand
what you want, but give me a chance to understand you. Watch me, and if
I fail to do your bidding, see if something is not wrong with my
harness or feet.
Do not check me so that I cannot have the free use of my head. If you
insist that I wear blinders so that I cannot see behind me, as it was
intended I should, I pray you to be careful that the blinders stand
well out from my eyes.
Do not overload me, or hitch me where water will drip on me. Keep me
well shod. Examine my teeth when I do not eat. I may have an ulcerated
tooth, and that, you know, is very painful. Do not fix my head in an
unnatural position, or take away my best defense against flies and
mosquitoes by cutting off my tail.
I cannot tell you when I am thirsty, so give me clean cool water often.
I cannot tell you in words when I am sick, so watch me, and by signs
you may know my condition. Give me all possible shelter from the hot
sun, and put a blanket on me not when I am working but when I am
standing in the cold. Never put a frosty bit in my mouth. First warm it
by holding it a moment in your hands.
And finally, O My Master, when my useful strength is gone, do not turn
me out to starve or freeze, or sell me to some human brute, to be
slowly tortured and starved to death; but do Thou, My Master, take my
life in the kindest way, and your God will reward you Here and
Hereafter. You will not consider me irreverent if I ask this in the
name of Him who was born in a stable. Amen.
[Illustration]
"ONE, TWO, THREE!"
1. It was an old, old, old, old lady,
And a boy that was half past three;
And the way that they played together
Was beautiful to see.
2. She couldn't go running and jumping,
And the boy, no more could he;
For he was a thin little fellow,
With a thin little twisted knee.
3. They sat in the yellow twilight,
Out under the maple tree;
And the game that they played I'll tell you,
Just as it was told to me.
4. It was Hide and Go Seek they were playing,
Though you'd never have known it to be--
With an old, old, old, old lady,
And a boy with a twisted knee.
5. The boy would bend his face down
On his one little sound right knee,
And he guessed where she was hiding,
In guesses One, Two, Three!
6. "You are in the china closet!"
He would cry, and laugh with glee--
It wasn't the china closet;
But he still had Two and Three.
7. "You are up in Papa's big bedroom,
In the chest with the queer old key!"
And she said: "You are _warm_ and _warmer_;
But you're not quite right," said she.
8. "It can't be the little cupboard
Where Mamma's things used to be
So it must be the clothespress, Gran'ma!"
And he found her with his Three.
9. Then she covered her face with her fingers,
That were wrinkled and white and wee,
And she guessed where the boy was hiding,
With a One and a Two and a Three.
10. And they never had stirred from their places,
Right under the maple tree--
This old, old, old, old lady,
And the boy with the lame little knee--
This dear, dear, dear old lady,
And the boy who was half past three.
--_From Poems of H. C. Bunner; copyrighted 1884, 1892, 1899 by
Chas. Scribner's Sons._
BIRD-STUDY IN OHIO PUBLIC SCHOOLS.
DR. EUGENE SWOPE.
Audubon Field Agent for Ohio, 4 W. Seventh St., Cincinnati, O.
The national movement for the study and protection of our wild birds is
as well understood and supported by the teachers of Ohio as of any
other State. The number of Junior Audubon Classes formed in the schools
of Ohio last year was second only to New Jersey. That little State took
the lead. Ohio ought to take the lead this year. With our Commissioner
F. W. Miller giving his approval and encouragement, and our Supervisors
of Agriculture recommending bird study as a necessary feature of
elementary agriculture, Ohio ought to be able to report a large number
of Bird Classes by the middle of May.
[Illustration: BIRDS AT HOME.]
It is a rare thing to find a Superintendent or principal actually
unfriendly toward bird study, but a very large percent hesitate to
admit it into their schools because it is new and untried.
The claims of bird study upon Superintendents and principals is one
that cannot much longer be overlooked. The National desire to know the
wild birds and to save the remnant now left, is yearly becoming
stronger. An ever-increasing number of homes are becoming active
centers and parents are looking to the public schools for help, and
children everywhere are eager for bird study.
There is no risk in introducing Junior Audubon Classes in a school.
Some of our country's foremost educators have tried it with gratifying
results, for they find that there is no better subject to develope the
power of _attention_ in children, there is no better subject to train
children's _memories_, there is no better subject to awake _originality_
of thought in young minds, and it is unquestionably the supreme subject
for composition work. Any teacher who cares to give bird study a trial
may correspond with me and receive gratis, the help now offered by the
Ohio Audubon Society.
THE BOY WITH THE HOE.
"Say, how do you hoe your row, young chap?
Say, how do you hoe your row?
Do you hoe it fair?
Do you hoe it square?
Do you hoe it the best you know?
Do you cut the weeds as you ought to do?
And leave what's worth while there?
The harvest you garner depends on you,
Are you working it on the square?
"Are you killing the noxious weeds, young chap?
Are you making it straight and clean?
Are you going straight,
At a hustling gait,
Do you scatter all that's mean?
Do you laugh and sing and whistle shrill,
And dance a step or two?
The road you hoe leads up a hill;
The harvest is up to you."
--_Selected._
[Illustration: WHY DO BOYS LOVE SUCH A PLACE AS THIS?]
THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION.
O leave this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Though bush or floweret never grow
My dark unwarming shade below;
Nor summer bud perfume the dew
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
Nor fruits of Autumn, blossom born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
The ambrosial amber of the hive;
Yet leave this barren spot to me;
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Trice twenty summers have I seen
The sky grow bright, the forest green;
And many a wintry wind have stood
In bloomless, fruitless solitude,
Since childhood in my pleasant bower
First spent its sweet and pensive hour;
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and rapture made,
And on my trunk's surviving frame
Carved many a long-forgotten name.
Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
First breather upon this sacred ground;
By all that Love has whispered here,
Or Beauty heard with ravished ear;
As Love's own altar honor me;
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.
--_Thomas Campbell._
[Illustration: TURTLECREEK TOWNSHIP SCHOOL EXHIBIT AT WARREN COUNTY
FAIR.]
THE CARDINAL.
BY WILLIAM DUTCHER,
President of National Association of Audubon Societies. Educational
Leaflet No. 18.
The Cardinal is one of the most brilliant of American birds; the name
is derived from its color, which is a deep red, somewhat less vivid
than scarlet. This color is supposed to be named from the vestments of
a cardinal, an ecclesiastic of high rank in the Roman Church. The
female bird, while not so conspicuous as her mate, is clad in a rich
brown with just enough of red to light it up. They are indeed a
striking pair, and wherever they are found soon become favorites. They
are known as Cardinal Grosbeaks, Red-birds, Crested Red-birds, Virginia
Nightingales, and lately James Lane Allen has made familiar Kentucky
Cardinal. The illustration shows the Cardinal's most prominent
features--a very large strong bill, a conspicuous crest, which can be
erected or depressed at will, short rounded wings and a long tail. The
length of the Cardinal is a little over eight inches from tip of bill
to end of tail.
Once seen, the Cardinal can never be mistaken for any other bird,
especially as its plumage virtually never changes but remains much the
same at all seasons of the year. Cardinals are resident wherever they
are found, and their center of abundance is in the southern portion of
the United States. The northern limit of its range is approximately a
line drawn from a point in the vicinity of New York City, westward to
southeastern Nebraska; thence southward to Texas, where it is found in
the greater part of the state. These lines are arbitrary, but are given
in order that a teacher may show scholars in a general way where
Cardinals can be found. Further, they give teachers and pupils who
reside outside these limits an opportunity to extend the Cardinal's
known range by proving that it lives in their locality.
There have been records of the Cardinal made as far north as Nova
Scotia and Southern Ontario, but it is believed that these were escaped
cage birds, the Cardinal, probably owing to its beauty of plumage and
richness of song, having long been a favorite cage bird. Alexander
Wilson, in American Ornithology (Vol. II, page 145), which was
published in 1828, says, "This is one of our most common cage birds,
and is very generally known, not only in North America, but even in
Europe; numbers of them having been carried over both to France and
England, in which last country they are usually called Virginia
Nightingales."
Dr. Russ, the great German aviculturist, says, "Beloved in its home by
both Americans and Germans, it is protected and caught only for the
cage bird fancy. Had been bred in Holland a century and a half ago and
later in England." It is true that until recently large numbers of
Cardinals were caught or taken from the nest while young, for shipment
to foreign countries by bird dealers. Owing to the efforts of the
National Association, this traffic is a thing of the past. The Model
Law, which is in force in all the States where the Cardinal is found,
prohibits all traffic in these birds and forbids their being shipped
from the State.
The Cardinal is too beautiful and valuable a bird to be confined within
the narrow limits of a cage, where its splendid spirit is soon broken
by its unavailing attempts to escape. Mrs. Olive Thorne Miller, in one
of her charming pictures of bird life, says of a captive Cardinal,
that, "He is a cynic, morose and crusty." Such a character cannot be
attributed to the Cardinal when it is at liberty. Its wild, free song,
its restless activity and its boldness are the antithesis of a
depressed cage captive. Even when it receives the best care from its
human jailer it is still a prisoner confined in a space so small that
it never has an opportunity to stretch its wings in flight, nor can it
ever bathe in the bright sunshine or view the blue skies above it. The
whispering of the winds through the sylvan shades is lost to the
captive forever. Is it strange that the nature of this wild free spirit
changes?
The writer has seen many hundreds of these beautiful birds in cages
ready to be shipped, each one doomed to a short existence, a prisoner
and an exile. Fortunately, this condition is now changed; and, had the
National Association accomplished no other good, the stopping of the
cage-bird traffic would be a sufficient reason for its organization.
In the South, where the Cardinal is one of the most abundant birds, it
is a special favorite, rivaling the Mockingbird in the affections of
the people. It is commonly found in the towns as well as the rural
districts. The female bird builds the nest, which is loosely
constructed of leaves, bark, twigs, shreds of grape-vine, and is lined
with dry grasses. The nest is placed in bushes or vines from eight to
ten feet from the ground. Three or four white eggs, speckled with
brown, are laid, and it is probable that in the South two broods are
raised each season. The home life of Cardinals is a pattern of domestic
felicity, so true are the sexes to each other. Even in winter they seem
to be paired, for a male and a female are always seen together.
However, during the season of incubation the tender solicitude of the
male for his mate is best shown. In fact, his extreme anxiety that the
home and its inmates should not be discovered excites him so much that
he actually leads the visitor to the nest in the attempt to mislead.
The song of the male Cardinal is loud and clear, with a melodious ring,
"What cheer! What cheer! What cheer!" winding up with a peculiar
long-drawn out e-e-e. Contrary to the usual custom in bird families,
the female Cardinal is an excellent singer, although her notes are in
an entirely different key from those of her gifted mate, being lower
and to some ears more sweet and musical.
Audubon's "American Ornithological Biography" is so rare at the present
day, being found only in the largest libraries, and is consequently so
inaccessible to the ordinary reader, that his description of the song
of the Cardinal is quoted in full.
"Its song is at first loud and clear, resembling the finest sounds
produced by the flageolet, and gradually descends into more marked and
continued cadences, until it dies away in the air around. During the
love season the song is emitted with increased emphasis by this proud
musician, who, as if aware of his powers, swells his throat, spreads
his rosy tail, droops his wings, and leans alternately to the right and
left, as if on the eve of expiring with delight at the delicious sounds
of his own voice. Again and again are those melodies repeated, the bird
resting only at intervals to breathe. They may be heard from long
before the sun gilds the eastern horizon, to the period when the
blazing orb pours down its noonday floods of heat and light, driving
the birds to the coverts to seek repose for a while. Nature again
invigorated, the musician recommences his song, when, as if he had
never strained his throat before, he makes the whole neighborhood
resound, nor ceases until the shades of evening close around him. Day
after day the song of the Red-bird beguiles the weariness of his mate
as she assiduously warmed her eggs; and at times she also assists with
the modesty of her gentler sex. Few individuals of our own race refuse
their homage and admiration to the sweet songster. How pleasing is it,
when, by a clouded sky, the woods are rendered so dark that, were it
not for an occasional glimpse of clearer light falling between the
trees, you might imagine night at hand, while you are yet far distant
from your home, how pleasing to have your ear suddenly saluted by the
well-known notes of this favorite bird, assuring you of peace around,
and of the full hour that still remains for you to pursue your walk in
security! How often have I enjoyed this pleasure and how often, in due
humbleness of hope, do I trust that I may enjoy it again."
[Illustration: A SCHOOL GROUND WORTH MANY TIMES WHAT IT COSTS.]
[Illustration: BIRD HOUSES.]
In addition to its great esthetic value of song and plumage, the
Cardinal has another important character which should endear it to the
husbandman. Its food is various, consisting of wild fruits such as
grapes, berries, mulberries, cedar berries, seeds of grasses and of
many species of weeds, also large numbers of adult beetles,
grasshoppers, crickets, flies, ants and their larvae; it is especially
fond of rose-bugs. The Cardinal is from every point of view a bird of
great interest and value, and any person who makes its intimate
acquaintance will form a life-long friendship.
--_Reprinted from Bird-lore._
THE HERMIT THRUSH.
While walking through a lonely wood
I heard a lovely voice:
A voice so fresh and true and good
It made my heart rejoice.
It sounded like a Sunday bell,
Rung softly in a town,
Or like a stream, that in a dell
Forever trickles down.
It seemed to me a voice of love,
That always had loved me,
So softly it rang out above--
So wild and wanderingly.
O Voice, were you a golden dove,
Or just a plain gray bird?
O Voice, you are my wandering love,
Lost, yet forever heard.
--_Arvia Mackaye, 9 years old._
MY LITTLE BO-PEEP.
My little Bo-Peep does not cry for lost sheep--
O no! She is sobbing for bread;
Her hands are so tired, so weary her feet,
That she sighs, "I wish I were dead."
My little Bo-Peep does not wander away
O'er meadows so grassy and green;
'Mid the factory din, face wan, white and thin,
My little Bo-Peep can be seen.
My little Bo-Peep does not dream of white sheep--
Her day's work reaches into the night;
On her pallet of straw, a few hours of rest--
For her task she is up with the light.
O let's find a day for my Bo-Peep to play--
Let's give her a breath of fresh air;
Somehow we'll feel better when giving our thanks
To God for our blessings in prayer.
Marion, Ohio.
--_Isabella Virginia Freeland._
[Illustration]
THE OAK TREE.
Long ago in changeful autumn,
When the leaves are turning brown,
From a tall oak's topmost branches
Fell a little acorn down.
And it tumbled by the pathway,
And a chance foot trod it deep
In the ground, where all the winter
In its shell it lay asleep.
With the white snow lying over,
And the frost to hold it fast,
Till there came the mild spring weather,
When it burst its shell at last.
Many years kind Nature nursed it,
Summers hot and winters long;
Down the sun looked bright upon it,
While it grew up tall and strong.
Now it stands up like a giant,
Casting shadows broad and high,
With huge trunk and leafy branches
Spreading up into the sky.
Child, when haply you are resting,
'Neath the great oak's monster shade,
Think how little was the acorn
Whence that mighty tree was made.
Think how simple things and lowly
Have a part in Nature's plan;
How the great have small beginnings,
And the child becomes a man.
Little efforts work great actions;
Lessons in our childhood taught
Mold the spirits to the temper
Whereby noblest deeds are wrought.
Cherish then the gifts of childhood,
Use them gently, guard them well:
For their future growth and greatness
Who can measure, who can tell?
--_Colorado Arbor and Bird Day._
THE POPLAR FIELD.
The poplars are felled; farewell to the shade
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view
Of my favorite field, and the bank where they grew;
And now in the grass behold they are laid,
And the tree is my seat that once lent me their shade.
The blackbird has fled to another retreat,
Where the hazel affords him a screen from the heat;
And the scene where his melody charmed me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
To change both my heart and my fancy employs;
I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys;
Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see,
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.
--_Cowper._
IN THE ORCHARD.
Far down in the orchard I found her,
Her earnest eyes gazing aloft.
A baby hand waved me a warning,
A baby voice called to me--soft.
"Hush, mamma, don't frighten the birdies;
They're busy at work, don't you see?
A-picking the worms from the blossoms
A-growing on God's apple-tree!"
Ah, child, when thy life work is given,
God may not have great things for thee.
Be content if He sets thee to guarding
The blossoms upon His fruit tree.
Adelphi, Ohio.
--_Mary Nowlan Wittwer._
"THANK YOU" AND "AMEN".
When we were at Grandpa's house to dine,
He looked about with sober face;
Then clasps his hands and shuts his eyes,
And sister says he's saying grace.
He says long words that I don't know;
I'm only six years old--but then
I know two words he always says,
And one is "thanks" and one's "Amen."
While walking in my grandpa's woods
We saw a squirrel, big and gray;
He held a nut between his paws,
But did not eat it right away.
He closed his little shining eyes,
His hands raised just like grandpa's--then
I said, "O sister, keep real still,
He's saying "Thank you" and "Amen.""
* * * * *
"He that planteth a tree is a servant of God,
He provideth a kindness for many generations,
And faces that he hath not seen shall bless him."
* * * * *
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.
[Illustration: A COUNTRY SCHOOL BUILDING.]
[Illustration: SOUTH SALEM SCHOOL WITH HOUSE FOR SUPERINTENDENT, RENT
FREE.]
SPRINGTIME.
AIR--"AULD LANG SYNE."
The Winter storms have passed away,
And Springtime now is here,
With sunshine smiling all around,
And heavens blue and clear.
The gifts of Nature brighten earth,
And Nature her garden gay;
They give a cheery greeting bright
On this, the Arbor Day.
The birds with gladsome voices sing,
Each its melodious lay,
And music swells each little throat
On this, the Arbor Day.
The trees put forth their greenest leaves,
On this, the Arbor Day.
And welcome now the chosen tree
Which we shall plant today.
_Ellen Beauchamp._
DO APPLE SEEDS POINT UP OR DOWN?
When teacher called the apple class, they gathered round to see
What question deep in apple lore their task that day might be.
"Now tell me," said the teacher, to little Polly Brown,
"Do apple seeds grow pointing up, or are they pointing down?"
Poor Polly didn't know, for she had never thought to look
(And that's the kind of question you can't find in a book.)
And of the whole big Apple class not one small pupil knew
If apple seeds point up or down! But then, my dear, do you?
--_Carolyn Wells in St. Nicholas._
[Illustration]
If Mother Nature patches
The leaves of trees and vines,
I'm sure she does her darning
With the needles of the pines.
They are so long and slender;
And sometimes in full view,
They have their thread of cobwebs
And thimbles made of dew.
--_William H. Hayne._
THE JOLLY OLD CROW.
On the limb of a tree sat a jolly old crow,
And chattered away with glee, with glee,
As he saw the old farmer go out to sow,
And he cried: "It's all for me, for me--
Caw, caw, caw!
I've learned all the tricks of this wonderful man,
Who has such a regard for the crow, the crow,
That he lays out his grounds in a regular plan,
And covers his corn in a row, a row--
Caw, caw, caw!"
--_Selected._
THEY'LL COME AGAIN.
They'll come again to the apple tree,
Robin and all the rest;
When the orchard branches are fair to see
In the snow of the blossoms dressed,
And the prettiest thing in the world will be
The building of the nest.
A PLUMP LITTLE GIRL AND A THIN LITTLE BIRD.
A plump little girl and a thin little bird
Were out in the meadow together.
"How cold that poor little bird must be
Without any clothes like mine," said she,
"Although it is sunshiny weather!"
"A nice little girl is that," piped he,
"But, oh, how cold she must be! For, see,
She hasn't a single feather!"
So each shivered to think of the other poor thing,
"Although it is sunshiny weather!"
--_M. M. Dodge._
HOW THE WOODPECKER KNOWS.
How does he know where to dig his hole,
The woodpecker there on the elm tree hole?
How does he know what kind of a limb
To use for a drum, and to burrow in?
How does he find where the young grubs grow--
I'd like to know?
The woodpecker flew to a maple limb,
And drummed a tattoo that was fun for him,
"No breakfast here! It's too hard for that."
He said, as down on his tail he sat,
"Just listen to this: rrrr rat-rat-tat."
Do you know when you wound any dear little bird,
Or take from its home-nest another,
That the cries of their anguish in heaven are heard,
That God pities those birds and their mother?
Do you know the same God made the birds and the boys,
And both for the very same reason,
That each life should be bright with its homes and its joys,
For each in its measure and season?
Do you know if you hark to the song in the air,
So sweet in the freshness of morning,
That the birds seem to sing, "We will trust to your care
To keep us from danger and mourning?"
Do you, if you'd listen with soul and with heart,
You never would ruffle a feather
Of the dear little birds that make our glad world a part,
For all are God's children together?
THE BOY'S PROTEST.
When a fellow knows every bird's nest
In the fields for miles around,
Where the squirrels play in the sunshine,
Where the prettiest flowers are found;
When he knows a pair of robins
That will fly to his hands for crumbs,
He hates to be penned in a school-room,
And he's glad when Saturday comes.
There's a bee-tree on the hillside,
But I'll not tell any one where;
There's a school of trout in the mill-stream,
And I want to go fishing there.
I know where an oriole's building,
And a log where a partridge drums,
And I'm going to the woods to see them,
As soon as Saturday comes.
They shouldn't keep school in the springtime,
When the world is so fresh and bright,
When you want to be fishing and climbing,
And playing from morn till night.
It's a shame to be kept in the school-room,
Writing and working out sums;
All week it's like being in prison,
And I'm glad when Saturday comes.
--_New York Independent._
[Illustration: AN ANTWERP SCENE.]
[Illustration]
THE ORIOLE'S SONG.
Tangled and green the orchard way,
Breath of blossoms, and waft of breeze;
Dew-wet vistas of breaking day,
Drifted snow on the drooping trees.
Through branching bloom, and mist of green,
Now here, now there, upon the wing,
Flame of oriole faintly seen--
Vision fair of the winsome spring.
A low-drawn cadence, thrilling, low,
A call, a charm unto the ear;
A forest brook in golden flow,
A love song to the waking year.
And all the gladness of a young May
Is touching with pathos at the strain;
The melting music of the lay
Our heart's deep secrets wakes again.
--_Sheila._
THE RED-HEADED WOODPECKER.
BY FLORENCE MERRIAM BAILEY.
The National Association of Audubon Societies Educational Leaflet No.
43.
The Woodpeckers are a band of foresters most of whom spend their lives
saving trees. Many of them do their work hidden in the dark forests,
but the Red-heads hunt largely out in plain sight of passers-by. Why?
Because, while they devour enough enemies of the trees to deserve the
name of foresters, they are particularly fond of vegetable foods and
large beetles found in the open.
Watch one of the handsome Red-headed birds on a fence. Down he drops to
pick up an ant or a grasshopper from the ground; then up he shoots to
catch a wasp or beetle in the air. Nor does he stop with fly-catching.
Nutting--beech-nutting--is one of his favorite pastimes; while berries,
fruits and seeds are all to his taste. If, in his appreciation of the
good things that man offers, the Red-head on rare occasions takes a bit
more cultivated fruit or berries than his rightful share, his attention
should be diverted by planting some of his favorite wild fruits, such
as dogwood, mulberry, elderberry, chokecherry, or wild black cherry.
But, in judging of what is a bird's fair share of man's crops, many
things should be considered. Food is bought for the Canary and other
house pets; and many people who do not care for caged pets buy food for
the wild birds summer and winter, to bring them to their houses.
Flowers cost something, too. But without birds and flowers, what would
the country be? Before raising his hand against a bird, a man should
think of many things. A man who is unfair to a bird is unfair to
himself.
[Sidenote: Feeding Habits.]
It would be a stingy man, indeed, who would begrudge the Woodpeckers
their acorns and beechnuts. While the leaves are still green on the
trees, the Redheads discover the beechnuts and go to work. "It is a
truly beautiful sight," Dr. Merriam says, "to watch these magnificent
birds creeping about after the manner of Warblers, among the small
branches and twigs, which bend low with their weight, while picking and
husking the tender nuts."
The nuts are not always eaten on the spot, for, like their famous
California cousins, the Redheads store up food for winter use. All sorts
of odd nooks and crannies serve the Redheads for storehouses--knot-holes,
pockets under patches of raised bark, cracks between shingles and fences,
and even railroad ties. Sometimes, instead of nuts, grasshoppers and other
eatables are put away in storage. The wise birds at times make real caches,
concealing their stores by hammering down pieces of wood or bark over them.
Beechnuts are such a large part of the fall and winter food of the
Redheads in some localities, that, like the gray squirrels, the birds
are common in good beechnut winters and absent in others. Cold and snow
do not trouble them, if they have plenty to eat, for, as Major Bendire
says, many of them "winter along our northern border, in certain years,
when they can find an abundant supply of food." In fact, in the greater
part of the eastern states the Redhead is "a rather regular resident,"
but in the western part of its range "It appears to migrate pretty
regularly," so that it is rare to see one "North of latitude 40 deg., in
winter." The western boundary of the Redhead's range is the Rocky
Mountains, but east of the mountains it breeds from Manitoba and
northern New York south to the Gulf of Mexico; though it is a rare bird
in eastern New England.
[Sidenote: Migration.]
In sections where this erratic Woodpecker migrates, it leaves its
nesting-grounds early in October, and returns the latter part of April
or the beginning of May. Before too much taken up with the serious
business of life, the Redhead goes gaily about, as Major Bendire says,
"frolicking and playing hide-and-seek with its mate, and when not so
engaged, amusing itself by drumming on some resonant dead limb, or on
the roof and sides of houses, barns, etc." For though, like other
drummers, the Woodpeckers are not found in the front ranks of the
orchestra, they beat a royal tattoo that may well express many fine
feelings.
When the musical spring holiday is over and the birds have chosen a
tree for the nest, they hew out a pocket in a trunk or branch, anywhere
from eight to eighty feet from the ground. When the young hatch, there
comes a happy day for the looker-on who, by kind intent and unobtrusive
way, has earned the right to watch the lovely birds flying back and
forth, caring for their brood.
[Sidenote: Nest.]
And then, at last, come the days when the gray-headed youngsters, from
hanging out of the window, boldly open their wings and launch into the
air. Anxious times these are for old birds,--times when the watcher's
admiration may be roused by heroic deeds of parental love; for many a
parent bird fairly flaunts in the face of the enemy, as if trying to
say, "Kill me; spare my young!"
One family of Redheads once gave me a delightful three weeks. When the
old birds were first discovered, one was on a stub in a meadow. When
joined by its mate, as the farmer was coming with oxen and hayrack to
take up the rows of haycocks that led down the field, the pair flew
slowly ahead along a line of locusts, pecking quietly at the bark of
each tree before flying on. At the foot of the meadow they flew over to
a small grove in the adjoining pasture.
As it was July, it was easy to draw conclusions. And when I went to the
grove to investigate, the pair were so much alarmed that they at once
corroborated my conclusions. Did I mean harm? Why had I come? One of
them leaned far down across a dead limb and inspected me, rattling and
bowing nervously; the other stationed itself on the back of a branch
over which it peered at me with one eye. Both of them cried
krit-tar-rah every time I ventured to take a step. As they positively
would not commit themselves as to which one of the many Woodpecker
holes in sight belonged to them I had to make a tour of the grove.
[Illustration: A SCHOOL EXHIBIT.]
[Illustration: WAYNE TOWNSHIP CENTRALIZED SCHOOL LOCATED AT LEES CREEK,
CLINTON COUNTY, OHIO.]
On its edge was a promising old stub with a number of big, round holes
and, picking up a stick, I rapped on the trunk. Both birds were over my
head in an instant, rattling and scolding till you would have thought I
had come to chop down the tree and carry off the young before their
eyes. I felt injured, but having found the nest could afford to watch
from a distance.
It was not long before the old birds began feeding their young. They
would fly to the stub and stand under the nest while rousing the brood
by rattling into the hole, which had the odd effect of muffling their
voices. When, as they flew back and forth a Yellow-hammer stopped in
passing, they drove him off in a hurry. They wanted that grove to
themselves.
On my next visits, if, in spite of many precautions, they discovered
me, they flew to dead tree tops to watch me, or startled me by an angry
quarr' quarr' quarr' over my head. When they found that I made no
attempt to go near the nest, however, they finally put up with me and
went about their business.
After being at the nest together they would often fly off in opposite
directions, to hunt on different beats. If one hunted in the grove, the
other would go out to the rail fence. A high maple was a favorite
lookout and hunting-ground for the one who stayed in the grove, and
cracks in the bark afforded good places to wedge insects into. The bird
who hunted on the fence, if suspecting a grub in a rail, would stand
motionless as a Robin on the grass, apparently listening; but when the
right moment came would drill down rapidly and spear the grub. If an
insect passed that way the Redhead would make a sally into the air for
it, sometimes shooting straight up for fifteen or twenty feet and
coming down almost as straight; at others flying out and back in an
ellipse, horizontally or obliquely up in the air or down over the
ground. But oftener than all, perhaps, it flew down onto the ground to
pick up something which its sharp eyes had discovered there. Once it
brought up some insect, hit it against the rail, gave a business-like
hop and flew off to feed its young.
The young left the nest between my visits, but when, chancing to focus
my glass on a passing Woodpecker I discovered that its head was gray
instead of red, I knew for a certainty what had happened. The fledgling
seemed already much at home on its wings. It flew out into the air,
caught a white miller and went back to the tree with it, shaking it and
then rapping it vigorously against a branch before venturing to swallow
it. When the youngster flew, I followed rousing a Robin who made such
an outcry that one of the old Redheads flew over in alarm. "Kik-a-rik,
kik-a-rik," it cried as it hurried from tree to tree, trying to keep an
eye on me while looking for the youngster. Neither of us could find it
for some time, but after looking in vain over the west side of a big
tree I rounded the trunk and found it calmly sitting on a branch on the
east side--which goes to prove that it is never safe to say a
Woodpecker isn't on a tree, till you have seen both sides!
The old Redhead found the lost fledgling about the time that I did and
flew over to it with what looked like a big grub. At the delectable
sight, the youngster dropped all its airs of independence, and with
weak infantile cries turned and opened wide its bill!
Two days later I found two birds that may have been father and son, on
the side of a gladpole, out in the big world together. The old bird's
head glowed crimson in the strong sunlight, and it was fortunate indeed
that only friends were by.
The striking tricolor makes the Redheads such good targets that they
are in especial danger from human enemies and need loyal, valiant
defenders wherever they live. And what a privilege it is to have birds
of such interesting habits and beautiful plumage in your neighborhood!
How the long country roads are enlivened, how the green fields are lit
up, as one of the brilliant birds rises from a fence-post and flies
over them! In the city, it is rare good luck, indeed, to have a pair
nest in an oak where you can watch them and even a passing glimpse or
an occasional visit is something to be thankful for.
"There's the Redhead!" you exclaim exultantly, when a loud tattoo beats
on your city roof in spring. And "There's the Redhead!" you cry with
delight, as a soft kikarik comes from a leafless oak you are passing in
winter; and the city street, so dull and uninteresting before, is
suddenly illumined by the sight.
--_Reprinted from Bird-lore._
FOUR LEAF CLOVERS.
I know a place where the sun is like gold,
And the cherry blooms burst with snow,
And down underneath is the loveliest nook,
Where the four-leaf clovers grow.
One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith,
And one is for love, you know,
But God put another in for luck--
If you search, you will find where they grow.
But you must have hope, and you must have faith,
You must love and be strong, and so
If you work, if you wait, you will find the place
Where the four-leaf clovers grow.
--_Ella Higginson._
THE FLOWER FOLK.
Hope is like a harebell trembling from its birth,
Love is like a rose the joy of all the earth;
Faith is like a lily lifted high and white,
Love is like a lovely rose, the world's delight;
Harebells and sweet lilies show a thornless growth
But the rose with all its thorns excels them both.
--_Christina G. Rossetti._
ARBOR DAY MARCH.
AIR--"MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA."
Celebrate the Arbor Day
With march and song and cheer,
For the season comes to us
But once in every year;
Should we not remember it,
And make the memory dear,
Memories sweet for this May day.
CHORUS.
Hurrah! Hurrah! The Arbor Day is here;
Hurrah! Hurrah! It gladdens every year,
So we plant a young tree on blithesome Arbor Day,
While we are singing for gladness.
ARBOR DAY SONG.
(AIR: HOLD THE FORT.)
Friends and parents gather with us,
In our school today,
Thoughts of grove and tangled wildwoods,
In our minds hold sway.
CHORUS.
Spare the trees, Oh thoughtless woodman,
Hew but what you need,
They give balm to vagrant breezes,
For their lives we plead.
Giant oaks in sunny pastures
Cast their pleasant shade
Maples clad in gold and crimson
Cheer the darkened glade.
Lofty firs and murmuring pine trees
Shading mountain's crest,
Are the growth of weary ages;
For them we protest.
Heralded in leafy banners,
Season's four we greet;
Every bough a sacred temple
For the song birds sweet.
--_Iowa Special Days._
WE LOVE THE TREES.
(TUNE: "THERE'S MUSIC IN THE AIR.")
We love the grand old trees,
With the Oak, their royal king,
And the Maple, forest queen,
We to her homage bring;
And the Elm, with stately form,
Long withstanding wind and storm,
Pine, low whispering to the breeze,
O, we love the grand old trees!
We love the grand old trees,
The Cedar, bright above the snow,
The Poplar, straight and tall,
And the Willow, weeping low,
Butternut and Walnut, too,
Hickory, so staunch and true,
Basswood, blooming for the bees,
O, we love the grand old trees!
We love the grand old trees,
The Tulip, branching broad and high,
The Beech, with shining robe,
And the Birch, so sweet and shy,
Aged Chestnuts, fair to see,
Holly, bright with Christmas glee,
Laurel, crown for victories,
O, we love the grand old trees!
--_Ada S. Sherwood, in Journal of Education._
RECITATION.
Do you know the trees by name
When you see them growing
In the fields or in the woods?
They are well worth knowing.
Watch them in the early spring,
When their buds are swelling;
Watch each tiny little leaf
Leave its little dwelling.
Watch them later, when their leaves
Everywhere are showing;
Soon you'll know the different trees
When you see them growing.
--_Selected._
GOIN' BAREFOOTED.
It's more fun goin' barefoot than anythin' I know,
There ain't a single 'nother thing that helps your feelin's so.
Some days I stay in muvver's room, a-gettin' in her way,
An' when I've bothered her so much, she sez, "Oh, run and play!"
I say, "Kin I go barefoot?" En she sez, "If y' choose."
Nen I alwuz wanter holler when I'm pullin' off my shoes!
It's fun a-going barefoot when yer playin' any game,
'Cause robbers would be noisy, an' Indians awful tame
Unless they had their shoes off when they crep' up in the night,
An' folks can't know they're comin' till they get right close in sight.
An' I'm surely goin' barefoot every day when I get old,
An' haven't got a nurse to say I'll catch my death of cold.
An' if you're goin' barefoot, yer want to go outdoors;
Y' can't stretch out an' dig yer heels in stupid, hardwood floors,
Like you can dig 'em in th' dirt. An' where th' long grass grows,
Th' blades feel kinder tickley and cool between yer toes.
So when I'm pullin' off my shoes I'm mighty 'fraid I'll cough,
'Cause then I know Ma'd stop me 'fore I got my stockin's off.
If y' often go 'round barefoot there's lots o' things to know--
Of how to curl yer feet on stones, so they won't hurt y' so;
An' when th' grass is stickley, an' pricks y' at a touch,
Jes' plank yer feet down solid, an' it don't hurt half so much;
I lose my hat mos' every day--I wish I did my shoes;
Er else I wisht I was so poor I hadn't none to lose!
--_Burges Johnson, in "Harper's Magazine."_
The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-sides dew pearled:
The larks on the wing:
The snails on the thorn;
God's in his heaven--
All's right with the world!
--_Browning._
In fact there is nothing that keeps its youth
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
--_O. W. Holmes._
There's never a leaf or a blade too mean
To be some creature's palace.
--_Lowell._
TIME TO RISE.
A birdie with a yellow bill
Hopped upon the window sill.
Cocked his shining eye and said:
"Ain't you 'shamed, you sleepy-head!"
Flowers are the sweetest things God ever made and forgot to put a soul
into.
--_Beecher._
The best verses I have printed are the trees I have planted.
--_Holmes._
There was never mystery
But 'tis figured in the flowers;
Was never secret history
But birds tell it in the bowers.
--_Emerson._
[Illustration: OUR SHY NEIGHBOR.]
THE WISEACRES OF THE FOREST.
_From Nature and Culture._
So many have an idea that bird-life does not blossom out until the
flowers do, and that our shy neighbors do not wake to life and joy and
song until the warm breezes of spring have chased to the realm of
memory winter's cold and snow. Several weeks of wandering through the
woods during the months of January and February taught me that to him
who has time to devote, and that amount of patience which enables a
hunter to rise at three in the morning, crawl through wet, tangled
swamp-grass in the cold and snow, and then sit shivering for hours in a
"hide" awaiting the ducks, there will be shots, camera shots, replete
with interest and full of instruction; revelations of a world's
population little known because of their unobtrusive life. They who
lead the "simple life" may not make as much stir in the world as some
others we know: but never make the mistake of thinking the life one
lacking in interest. These "little journeys" of mine were for the
purpose of prying into the secrets of our friends "the owls." As far
back as the uncovered picture-writing of the ancients, Mr. Owl has been
the synonym for wisdom. Does he deserve the title?
As company lends interest, I was accompanied by a friend who took equal
delight in these jaunts; and off we started one fourteenth of January.
For some six miles we tramped along the Kaw Valley, in Kansas, ever on
the lookout for trees with large hollow trunks or broken limbs. Now, if
any one believes an owl is entirely a night-bird, let him follow in my
footsteps, and he will learn a thing or two. These are some of the
mysteries of "the wild." Entering a spot of the forest where the banks
of the stream were lined thickly on both sides with trees, both large
and small, we seated ourselves for a time to rest and to watch. Like
Egyptian darkness, the quiet was of a kind to be felt, but it did not
long remain this way. Suddenly the strange quiet was broken by a
fierce, angry call of a crow. Now, where did he come from, and why this
display of anger? Possibly at our intrusion; yet this could hardly be,
as it was far too early in the season for the crow to be nesting.
Before we had time to settle our question the stillness was further
broken by several shrill answers, and into the branchy arena came other
crows. These were followed by others, and still others. Surely we were
not the cause of all this disturbance. Finally there were no less than
two dozen crows flying around a large tree with a broken top, and
making a clatter that would have put a boiler factory to shame. One
could easily imagine it to be a congress of crows exorcised over an
insurgency move and demanding the previous question. Then came the
solution of the mystery. In dignified yet rapid flight a huge owl
dropped from a limb on the other side of the stump, and with a flight
as silent as the grave winged her way into the deeper woods followed by
that rabble of noisy, cawing crows. It seemed strange that the owl did
not turn upon her tormentors; she who had talons long, strong, and
sharp; a beak that could easily make its impression upon a pine stick;
but her reputed wisdom here led her to know that safety lay in flight,
as her size would be her undoing; that the crow would find many points
of attack ere she could turn around. Safety lay in flight and shelter
where the crows could not reach her, and would finally caw themselves
hoarse and tired, and at last depart. Many times have I watched these
actions on the part of the owls and crows, and always with the same
results. Not alone the larger, but also the smaller owls adopt the same
course of action to escape their tormentors. This leads me to believe
that this partly accounts for their foraging at night.
[Illustration: NEST OF BARRED OWL.]
We now turned our attention to the tree--truly a monarch of the "forest
primeval"--a huge sycamore, about five feet in diameter at the base,
with few limbs to aid in climbing. But we simply must get up to that
hollow, and after much effort success was ours; and there, deep down in
the hole, on a bed of warm chips and half-rotted punky wood, all nicely
cuddled up, lay two little fluffy white baby owls--young hoot owls. As
it takes about four weeks for incubation, and these babies were fully a
week old, nesting must have begun at least in the middle of December.
Much depends on the winter; this one having been very mild. In fact, I
have noticed that birds are quite accurate weather prophets, were we
only skilled enough to read their predictions. But it is always safe, I
find, to be early in the field. And now came our first disappointment.
It was impossible to secure a picture of the nest and baby owls, owing
to the unfavorable position of the tree and nest; so, taking a farewell
look at the place, we returned, hoping for better luck next time.
[Illustration: NEST AND EGGS OF SCREECH OWL.]
The following week we were out and at it again, and were more fortunate
in that we discovered the home of another owl, similar in shape, but
smaller, and differently marked. This was the barred owl, so called
because of its markings. Here, again, the nest was up quite a ways, and
difficult to get to. After much trouble we cut down a small tree and
hoisted it into the larger tree so that it came near the hole where the
nest was. This enabled me to get above the nest, so that I could swing
down to the hole by a rope and get a view of the nest and contents.
After many attempts I succeeded in snapping two or three negatives, one
of which turned out fairly good and accompanies this article. Every
move I made while taking the pictures was punctuated by hoots of anger
and disgust by the mother owl, who had flown to a nearby tree, until
she aroused the attention of some ever-observant crows; then she had
all she could do taking care of herself and getting rid of her
tormentors. If ever a free matinee in birdland was billed, it occurred
that afternoon.
The weeks now slowly passed without further success. One must have
patience, much patience, in birdland. It may take years to secure what
will prove satisfactory views of some species. Many snaps, when taken,
prove undesirable after development, and each week adds to the
uncertainty of finding anything "at home" when next you come. While the
percentage of successful incubation is fairly large, yet the numerous
enemies of the feathered tribe make the uncertainty of life in birdland
quite noticeable.
[Illustration: BABY SCREECH OWLS.]
The time was now ripe for us to turn our attention to the little
screech owls; a small but interesting and valuable species. Here I
found a marked difference. Any small hole or cavity suits their fancy.
Generally speaking, it must be small enough to exclude larger birds or
animals that might prey upon them; but at times their boasted wisdom
seemingly forsakes them, and they take up with any habitation. I have
known them to nest in boxes in shade-trees and in bird-houses under the
eaves of the barn. On this trip I found a fresh set of eggs in an old
hollow stump formerly made by and used as the nesting-place of the
yellow-shafted woodpecker. Mrs. Owl was at home, and very much disliked
being disturbed. Unlike the larger owls, she refused to fly away, and I
had to lift her repeatedly from the eggs that I might take the picture.
As sometimes happens, the negative was a failure; and returning the
next week to try for better luck, I found safely curled up within the
cavity an opossum. The eggs and mother bird were not in evidence, and
the "possum" told no tales. Similar experiences have often occurred to
me when I have returned for better views or to follow up a certain line
of study.
The next nest of this species I found in a large hollow limb, which in
falling had lodged crosswise in a tree. It was rather a queer place for
a screech owl, but, I presume, suited her fancy. However, it was
favorably located, and if successful I could at least follow up the
process of nature; and this is just what I did. The only change made
was in bringing the eggs, and later the young, forward from the recess
of the cavity to insure better light. I wished to also take the parent
bird upon the nest; but in this case they were perverse, and refused to
be taken. One of the birds decided that he did not wish to be taken,
and after repeated trials I concluded he knew best, and gave over the
attempt. I also took the most courageous one and posed him on the stump
of the tree. The result is not altogether satisfactory, but is
interesting.
[Illustration: NEST AND EGGS OF LONG-EARED OWL.]
My next acquisition was the long-eared owl. With camera and tripod
strapped upon the bicycle I started upon a ride of some fifteen miles,
which brought me to an old nursery, abandoned, overgrown, and wild.
Here, in a much-neglected fir grove I found the nests and eggs of this
variety. The first taken was in a pine. Climbing an adjacent tree, I
located myself about five feet from the nest, and after carefully
securing and focussing the camera, secured the view. My second I found
later in the day in an apple tree. The tree was in bloom, but not
leaved out, and offered but scant hide or protection for the nest.
Indeed I, at first, took it for an old crow's nest, and was about to
pass on, when up over the rim of the nest bobbed two long ear-like
tufts--whence the bird gets its name. Approaching the tree, the mother
quietly left, and as long as I was in that vicinity I saw nothing
further of her. The long-eared owl is not very particular in the choice
of her nesting-place. They will often build in a communal manner,
several pairs selecting a fir grove or other suitable place; and here
you will find the nests quite near together. Again, they will be
isolated in location; one here, and another quite a distance away, as
the notion strikes them. The nest also seems to vary with their state
of mind. At times they will build a very elaborate structure of their
own; then, again, they take up with an old crow's nest or the summer
nest of a squirrel, and with very little patching up make this answer
their purpose. Because of this variability on their part, it is not an
easy matter to locate an occupied nest.
[Illustration: ELABORATE NEST OF LONG-EARED OWL.]
One more, and I am done with the owls. The securing of this was of
great interest to me, not alone for the sake of the picture, but
because it settled two questions on which I had long been in doubt. At
the time of which I now write I was living in an Indian school, and
previous to this all my ideas of Indians and Indian life had been
gathered from Cooper. Near the school was a large village of prairie
dogs covering something like ten acres of ground. One day I saw a small
species of owl flying around and lighting on the different mounds. I
immediately knew it to be the burrowing owl; but where among all those
thousand and more holes to dig for her was a question I could not
answer. To assist me, I brought the supposed craft of the red man's
children to bear; but of no avail. Not one of over two hundred could
give me the least ray of light. Then I got down to principles and
discovered that there were some mounds around which were scattered
butterflies' and grasshoppers' legs and wings, parts of frogs and
toads, and the little pellets usually ejected by owls in the process of
digestion. I also found that these mounds were invariably covered by an
animal compost gathered from the surrounding prairie. I resolved to put
my theory to the test by digging into one of these holes. Here the
Indian boy was a great help, as he thoroughly knew his verb "to dig." I
followed the hole down through hardpan to a depth of three feet, and
back for over ten feet, where at last I found Mrs. Owl sitting on her
nest of fresh eggs. Here I took her picture while her large round eyes
followed my every move as I focused and snapped her. It was while
investigating this subject that I also exploded a somewhat common
belief that prairie dogs, owls, and rattlesnakes live together in the
same quarters in perfect amity. This is not the case. If they are ever
found together it is either an accident unknown to one or the other
party, or one of three has purposely crawled into the other's home for
deeds dark and evil.
Altogether the experiences gained amply repaid me for the effort spent.
These visits to the silent ones were payments ample enough in
themselves, but my closer acquaintance with a very interesting family
made them doubly so. I find that the owl is one of our best and most
valuable friends, destroying during a season much of the troublesome
animal population that injures the agricultural interests of the land.
If careless boys and indifferent "others" could get this fact well
grounded and use some other mark in target practice, all parties would
be better off and much good gained. To take any life is ill, but to
take good life is crime.
[Illustration: BURROWING OWL AND HER EGGS.]
THE JAYS.
"I know an old man,
His name is Jay,
He wears a blue coat,
And a hat of gray.
He has a nice nest
High up in a tree,
Where sits his dear mate
Content as can be.
There are four blue eggs
In the little brown nest,
Which will soon be baby birds
Blue, like the rest."
ADDRESS OF THE BIRDS.
AN EXERCISE FOR FIVE PUPILS.
_The Robin_--
"I am a robin, very brown
And big and plump and smooth and round.
My breast is pretty, bright and red
And see this top-knot on my head!
I heard the boys awhile ago
Shooting robins o'er the snow,
And flew away in trembling fear
And thought I'd hide from them in here.
_The Blue Bird_--
I'm a blue bird. Don't you see
Me sitting on this apple-tree,
I left my nest an hour ago
To look for bugs and worms, you know;
And now I know the very thing--
That while I'm waiting I will sing,
Oh! beautiful and balmy spring.
_The Woodpecker_--
I'm a woodpecker--a bird
Whose sound through wood and dale is heard.
I tap, tap, tap, with noisy glee,
To test the bark of every tree.
I saw a rainbow stretching gay,
Across the sky, the other day;
And some one said, "Good-bye to rain,
The woodpecker has come again."
_The Lark_--
I'm the lark and early rise
To greet the sun-god of the skies,
And upright cleave the freshening air,
To sail in regions still more fair.
Who could not soar on lusty wing,
His Maker's praises thus to sing?
_The Nightingale_--
In music I excel the lark,
She comes at dawn, I come at dark,
And when the stars are shining bright,
I sing the praises of the night.
_In Concert_--
Oh! in a chorus sweet we'll sing,
And wake the echoes of the spring."
LITTLE BY LITTLE.
"Little by little," the acorn said,
As it slowly sank in its mossy bed,
"I am improving every day,
Hidden deep in the earth away."
Little by little each day it grew;
Little by little it sipped the dew;
Downward it sent out a threadlike root;
Up in the air sprung a tiny shoot,
Day after day, and year after year,
Little by little the leaves appear;
And the slender branches spread far and wide,
Till the mighty oak is the forest's pride.
"Little by little," said the thoughtful boy,
"Moment by moment, I'll well employ,
Learning a little every day,
And not misspending my time in play;
Whatever I do I will do it well.
Little by little, I'll learn to know
The treasured wisdom of long ago;
And one of these days, perhaps, will see
That the world will be the better for me."
--_Selected._
A LITTLE POLLYWOG.
"A tiny little pollywog,
And little brothers three,
Lived in the water near a log,
As happy as could be.
A-swimming, swimming all the day,
A-sleeping all the night,
And trying, though they were so gay,
To do just what was right;
A-growing, growing all the while,
Because they did their best;
But I am afraid that you will smile
When I tell you the rest.
One morning, sitting on the log,
They looked in mute surprise;
Four legs had every pollywog,
Where two had met their eyes.
Their mother, letting fall a tear,
Said, "Oh, my pollywogs,
It can't be you that sitting here!"
For all of them were frogs.
And with their legs they've grown some lungs;
So you just wait and see.
In summer time their little tongues
Will sing 'Kachink' with glee."
--_School Education._
AN ARBOR DAY TREE.
Dear little tree that we plant today
What will you be when we're old and gray?
"The savings bank of the squirrel and mouse,
For robin and wren an apartment house,
The dressing-room of the butterfly's ball,
The locust's and katydid's concert hall,
The school-boy's ladder in pleasant June,
The school-girl's tent in the July noon.
And my leaves shall whisper them merrily,
A tale of the children who planted me."
--_From The Intelligence._
THE ROBIN AND THE FLOWER.
A Robin once sat in the bright winter's sun,
A foolish red robin was he,
For he sang a sweet song that springtime had come
When the day was as cold as could be.
So gay was his song of the warmth of the hour,
So merrily babbled the sound,
That it stole through the dream of a dear little flower
Who was slumbering under the ground.
The sleeper awakened, soft lifted the sod
And harkened the robin's sweet song,
Full glad was her heart and thankful to God
That winter so quickly had gone.
The robin still sang and the dear little flower
Unfolded her petals of pink:--
"I'll hold up my chalice," she said, "for a shower
That from me my robin may drink."
The singer flew quickly to welcome his love,--
His love that was faltering low:--
Oh, where was the warmth from the heaven above?
Instead of a shower there was snow.
Then robin quick covered her o'er with his wing,
"Don't leave me, I love you," he cried:
And he kissed her so tenderly, poor little thing,
But the blossom, his loved one, had died.
Red robin still sits in the bright winter's sun,
But a sorrowing robin is he;
No longer he sings that the springtime has come
When the day is as cold as can be.
--_Charles A. Myall._
Give fools their gold and knaves their power;
Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall;
Who sows a field, or trains a flower
Or plants a tree is more than all.
For he who blesses most is blest;
And God and man shall own his worth
Who toils to leave as his bequest
An added beauty to the earth.
--_Whittier._
BIRD PUZZLE.
1. There's a bird whose name tells if he flies fast or slow,
2. One which boys use when with long strides they go,
3. There is one that tells tales, although he can't sing,
4. And one who flies high, but is held by a string.
5. By one a high rank in the army is held;
6. There's another whose name with one letter is spelled.
7. There is one that a farmer in harvest would use;
8. And one you can easily fool if you choose.
9. What bird, at dessert, is it useful to hold?
10. And which in the chimney place oft hung of old?
11. Which bird wears a bit of sky in its dress?
12. Which one always stands in the corner at chess?
13. There is one built a church, of London the pride;
14. We have one when we talk with a friend by our side.
15. What bird would its bill find useful at tea,
16. And which would its tail use to steer with at sea?
17. Which proudly a musical instrument wears?
18. And which the same name as a small island bears?
19. Which bird is called foolish and stupid and silly?
20. And which always wanting to punish poor Billy?
21. Which bird is an artisan, works at his trade?
22. And which is the stuff of which flags are made?
23. One, we're told by the poet, at Heaven's gate sings;
24. There's one which in Holland the new baby brings.
25. What bird have we with us in eating and drinking?
26. One, used for a fence, you can say without thinking.
27. What bird is a scoffer, a scorner, a jest?
28. Which one is too lazy to build her own nest?
29. From a high wind at evening one name is inferred.
30. Guess these, and you're wise as Minerva's own bird.
ANSWERS TO BIRD PUZZLE.
1. Swift
2. Stilt
3. Tatler
4. Kite
5. Adjutant
6. Jay
7. Thrasher
8. Gull
9. Nut-cracker
10. Crane
11. Blue Bird
12. Rook
13. Wren
14. Chat
15. Spoon-Bill
16. Rudder-duck
17. Lyre-bird
18. Canary
19. Loon
20. Whippoorwill
21. Weaver
22. Bunting
23. Lark
24. Stork
25. Swallow
26. Rail
27. Mocking bird
28. Cuckoo
29. Nightingale
30. Owl
THE CATBIRD.
He sits on the branch of yon blossoming tree,
This mad-cap cousin of Robin and Thrush,
And sings without ceasing the whole morning long;
Now wild, now tender, the wayward song
That flows from his soft gray, fluttering throat;
But oft he stops in his sweetest note,
And shaking a flower from the blossoming bough,
Drawls out: "Mi-eu, mi-ow!"
--_Edith M. Thomas._
THE MOCKING BIRD.
He didn't know much music
When first he come along;
An' all the birds went wonderin'
Why he didn't sing a song.
They primed their feathers in the sun,
An' sung their sweetest notes;
An' music jest come on the run
From all their purty throats!
But still that bird was silent
In summer time an' fall;
He jest set still an' listened
An' he wouldn't sing at all!
But one night when them songsters
Was tired out an' still,
An' the wind sighed down the valley
An' went creepin' up the hill;
When the stars was all a-tremble
In the dreamin' fields o' blue,
An' the daisy in the darkness
Felt the fallin' o' the dew,--
There come a sound o' melody
No mortal ever heard,
An' all the birds seemed singin'
From the throat o' one sweet bird!
Then the other birds went playin'
In a land too fur to call;
Fer there warn't no use in stayin'
When one bird could sing fer all!
--_Frank L. Stanton._
[Illustration: The Buckeye State]